Coming home last night, I closed the door of the Hilo bedroom and didn't notice it didn't latch. The next itty wind slammed it wide open again, while I was running down to turn on the generator.
A few hours later, I am walking to the bathroom, and notice several moths. Strange, I think, I have never seen moths inside the house – where might they have come from?
That's when I notice the wide open door. There are dozens of moths in sight, a flurry around each lamp. All look very similar: triangular wings, one inch long, look sturdier than the usual mainland moth.
True to the idea that I will never make it into Buddhist heaven, and I will probably be reborn as a moth out of spite, I conjure up all the instruments of capture I can find, and start squashing the bugs one by one. Hours later, at least there isn't any one in sight – although I know there must be more hiding.
I sleep at night, and they flutter around me. Strange, I haven't ever seen moths flutter around people. These ones like me more than I like them. I wake up a bunch of times, determined to find a way to get rid of them.
To no avail. I wake up really early (around 2a) and start chasing again. I use mops, brooms, sponges, bare hands, paper towels. The floor is littered with little winged corpses, and I start noticing that ants love the little bugs and start carrying them around.
I realize I have an additional secret weapon: I turn on the bug trap, an ultraviolet contraption of dubious bug-killing prowess, and turn off the lights. Soon the moths converge around the buzzing light, and I can start the madness again.
I feel vaguely guilty – as if as a good Christian, I should have given the poor moths a fighting chance. Don't want to go into history as the mass murderer of Hamakua moths!